Our mistress is a little given to philosophy: what disputations shall we
have here by and by!--Gil Blas.
It was now but seldom that I met Ellen, for I went little into general
society, and grew every day more engrossed in political affairs.
Sometimes, however, when, wearied of myself, and my graver occupations,
I yielded to my mother’s solicitations, and went to one of the nightly
haunts of the goddess we term Pleasure, and the Greeks, Moria, the game
of dissipation (to use a Spanish proverb) shuffled us together. It
was then that I had the most difficult task of my life to learn and to
perform; to check the lip--the eye--the soul--to heap curb on curb, upon
the gushings of the heart, which daily and hourly yearned to overflow;
and to feel, that while the mighty and restless tides of passion
were thus fettered and restrained, all within was a parched and arid
wilderness, that wasted itself, for want of very moisture, away. Yet
there was something grateful in the sadness with which I watched her
form in the dance, or listened to her voice in the song; and I felt
soothed, and even happy, when my fancy flattered itself, that her step
never now seemed so light, as it was wont to be when in harmony with
mine, nor the songs that pleased her most, so gay as those that were
formerly her choice.
Distant and unobserved, I loved to feed my eyes upon her pale and
downcast cheek; to note the abstraction that came over her at moments,
even when her glance seemed brightest, and her lip most fluent; and to
know, that while a fearful mystery might for ever forbid the union of
our hands, there was an invisible, but electric chain, which connected
the sympathies of our hearts.
Ah! why is it, that the noblest of our passions should be also the most
selfish?--that while we would make all earthly sacrifice for the one
we love, we are perpetually demanding a sacrifice in return; that if we
cannot have the rapture of blessing, we find a consolation in the power
to afflict; and that we acknowledge, while we reprobate, the maxim
of the sage: “L’on veut faire tout le bonheur, ou, si cela ne se peut
ainsi, tout le malheur de ce qu’on aime.”
The beauty of Ellen was not of that nature, which rests solely upon
the freshness of youth, nor even the magic of expression; it was as
faultless as it was dazzling; no one could deny its excess or its
perfection; her praises came constantly to my ear into whatever society
I went. Say what we will of the power of love, it borrows greatly from
opinion; pride, above all things, sanctions and strengthens affection.
When all voices were united to panegyrize her beauty--when I knew, that
the powers of her wit--the charms of her conversation--the accurate
judgment, united to the sparkling imagination, were even more remarkable
characteristics of her mind, than loveliness of her person, I could not
but feel my ambition, as well as my tenderness, excited; I dwelt with
a double intensity on my choice, and with a tenfold bitterness on the
obstacles which forbade me to indulge it.
Yet there was one circumstance, to which, in spite of all the evidence
against Reginald, my mind still fondly and eagerly clung. In searching
the pockets of the unfortunate Tyrrell, the money he had mentioned to me
as being in his possession, could not be discovered. Had Glanville been
the murderer, at all events he could not have been the robber; it was
true that in the death scuffle, which in all probability took place, the
money might have fallen from the person of the deceased, either among
the long grass which grew rankly and luxuriantly around, or in the
sullen and slimy pool, close to which the murder was perpetrated; it was
also possible, that Thornton, knowing the deceased had so large a
sum about him, and not being aware that the circumstance had been
communicated to me or any one else, might not have been able (when he
and Dawson first went to the spot,) to resist so great a temptation.
However, there was a slight crevice in this fact, for a sunbeam of hope
to enter, and I was too sanguine, by habitual temperament and present
passion, not to turn towards it from the general darkness of my
thoughts.
With Glanville I was often brought into immediate contact. Both united
in the same party, and engaged in concerting the same measures, we
frequently met in public, and sometimes even alone. However, I was
invariably cold and distant, and Glanville confirmed rather than
diminished my suspicions, by making no commentary on my behaviour, and
imitating it in the indifference of his own. Yet, it was with a painful
and aching heart, that I marked, in his emaciated from and sunken cheek,
the gradual, but certain progress of disease and death; and while all
England rung with the renown of the young, but almost unrivalled orator,
and both parties united in anticipating the certainty and brilliancy
of his success, I felt how improbable it was, that, even if his crime
escaped the unceasing vigilance of justice, this living world would long
possess any traces of his genius but the remembrance of his name. There
was something in his love of letters, his habits of luxury and expence,
the energy of his mind--the solitude, the darkness, the hauteur, the
reserve, of his manners and life, which reminded me of the German
Wallenstein; nor was he altogether without the superstition of that
evil, but extraordinary man. It is true, that he was not addicted to
the romantic fables of astrology, but he was an earnest, though secret,
advocate of the world of spirits. He did not utterly disbelieve the
various stories of their return to earth, and their visits to the
living; and it would have been astonishing to me, had I been a less
diligent observer of human inconsistencies, to mark a mind otherwise
so reasoning and strong, in this respect so credulous and weak; and
to witness its reception of a belief, not only so adverse to ordinary
reflection, but so absolutely contradictory to the philosophy it
passionately cultivated, and the principles it obstinately espoused.
One evening, I, Vincent, and Clarendon, were alone at Lady Roseville’s,
when Reginald and his sister entered. I rose to depart; la belle
Contesse would not suffer it; and when I looked at Ellen, and saw her
blush at my glance, the weakness of my heart conquered, and I remained.
Our conversation turned partly upon books, and principally on the
science du coeur et du monde, for Lady Roseville was un peu philosophe,
as well as more than un peu litteraire; and her house, like those of
the Du Deffands and D’Epinays of the old French regime, was one where
serious subjects were cultivated, as well as the lighter ones; where it
was the mode to treat no less upon things than to scandalize persons;
and where maxims on men and reflections on manners, were as much in
their places, as strictures on the Opera and invitations to balls.
All who were now assembled were more or less suited to one another; all
were people of the world, and yet occasional students of the closet;
but all had a different method of expressing their learning or their
observations. Clarendon was dry, formal, shrewd, and possessed of the
suspicious philosophy common to men hacknied in the world. Vincent
relieved his learning by the quotation, or metaphor, or originality of
some sort with which it was expressed. Lady Roseville seldom spoke
much, but when she did, it was rather with grace than solidity. She was
naturally melancholy and pensive, and her observations partook of the
colourings of her mind; but she was also a dame de la cour, accustomed
to conceal, and her language was gay and trifling, while the sentiments
it clothed were pensive and sad.
Ellen Glanville was an attentive listener, but a diffident speaker.
Though her knowledge was even masculine for its variety and extent, she
was averse to displaying it; the childish, the lively, the tender, were
the outward traits of her character--the flowers were above, but the
mine was beneath; one noted the beauty of the former--one seldom dreamt
of the value of the latter.
Glanville’s favourite method of expressing himself was terse and
sententious. He did not love the labour of detail: he conveyed the
knowledge of years in a problem. Sometimes he was fanciful, sometimes
false; but, generally, dark, melancholy, and bitter.
As for me, I entered more into conversation at Lady Roseville’s than I
usually do elsewhere; being, according to my favourite philosophy, gay
on the serious, and serious on the gay; and, perhaps, this is a juster
method of treating the two than would be readily imagined: for things
which are usually treated with importance, are, for the most part,
deserving of ridicule; and those which we receive as trifles, swell
themselves into a consequence we little dreamt of, before they depart.
Vincent took up a volume: it was Shelley’s Posthumous Poems. “How
fine,” said he, “some of these are; but they are fine fragments of an
architecture in bad taste: they are imperfect in themselves, and faulty
in the school they belonged to; yet, such as they are, the master-hand
is evident upon them. They are like the pictures of Paul Veronese--often
offending the eye, often irritating the judgment, but redolent of
something vast and lofty--their very faults are majestic--this age,
perhaps no other will ever do them justice--but the disciples of future
schools will make glorious pillage of their remains. The writings
of Shelley would furnish matter for a hundred volumes: they are an
admirable museum of ill-arranged curiosities--they are diamonds,
awkwardly set; but one of them, in the hands of a skilful jeweller,
would be inestimable: and the poet of the future, will serve him as
Mercury did the tortoise in his own translation from Homer--make him
‘sing sweetly when he’s dead!’ Their lyres will be made out of his
shell.”
“If I judge rightly,” said Clarendon, “his literary faults were these:
he was too learned in his poetry, and too poetical in his learning.
Learning is the bane of a poet. Imagine how beautiful Petrarch would
be without his platonic conceits: fancy the luxuriant imagination of
Cowley, left to run wild among the lofty objects of nature, not the
minute peculiarities of art. Even Milton, who made a more graceful and
gorgeous use of learning than, perhaps, any other poet, would have
been far more popular if he had been more familiar. Poetry is for
the multitude--erudition for the few. In proportion as you mix them,
erudition will gain in readers, and poetry lose.”
“True,” said Glanville; “and thus the poetical, among philosophers, are
the most popular of their time; and the philosophical among poets, the
least popular of theirs.”
“Take care,” said Vincent, smiling, “that we are not misled by the point
of your deduction; the remark is true, but with a certain reservation,
viz. that the philosophy which renders a poet less popular, must be
the philosophy of learning, not of wisdom. Wherever it consists in
the knowledge of the plainer springs of the heart, and not in abstruse
inquiry into its metaphysical and hidden subtleties, it necessarily
increases the popularity of the poem; because, instead of being limited
to the few, it comes home to every one. Thus it is the philosophy of
Shakspeare, Byron, Horace, Pope, Moliere, which has put them into every
one’s hands and hearts--while that of Propertius, even of Lucretius,
of Cowley, and Shelley, makes us often throw down the book, because
it fatigues us with the scholar. Philosophy, therefore, only sins in
poetry, when, in the severe garb of learning, it becomes ‘harsh and
crabbed,’ and not ‘musical, as is Apollo’s lute.’”
“Alas!” said I, “how much more difficult than of yore, education is
become--formerly, it had only one object--to acquire learning; and now,
we have not only to acquire it, but to know what to do with it when
we have--nay, there are not a few cases where the very perfection of
learning will be to appear ignorant.”
“Perhaps,” said Glanville, “the very perfection of wisdom may consist
in retaining actual ignorance. Where was there ever the individual who,
after consuming years, life, health, in the pursuit of science, rested
satisfied with its success, or rewarded by its triumph? Common sense
tells us that the best method of employing life, is to enjoy it. Common
sense tells us, also, the ordinary means of this enjoyment; health,
competence, and the indulgence, but the moderate indulgence, of our
passions. What have these to do with science?”
“I might tell you,” replied Vincent, “that I myself have been no idle
nor inactive seeker after the hidden treasures of mind; and that, from
my own experience, I could speak of pleasure, pride, complacency, in
the pursuit, that were no inconsiderable augmenters of my stock of
enjoyment: but I have the candour to confess, also, that I have known
disappointment, mortification, despondency of mind, and infirmity
of body, that did more than balance the account. The fact is, in my
opinion, that the individual is a sufferer for his toils, but then
the mass is benefited by his success. It is we who reap, in idle
gratification, what the husbandman has sown in the bitterness of labour.
Genius did not save Milton from poverty and blindness--nor Tasso from
the madhouse--nor Galileo from the inquisition; they were the sufferers,
but posterity the gainers. The literary empire reverses the political;
it is not the many made for one--it is the one made for many; wisdom and
genius must have their martyrs as well as religion, and with the same
results, viz: semen ecclesioeest sanguis martyrorum. And this reflection
must console us for their misfortunes, for, perhaps, it was sufficient
to console them. In the midst of the most affecting passage in the most
wonderful work, perhaps, ever produced, for the mixture of universal
thought with individual interest--I mean the two last cantos of Childe
Harold--the poet warms from himself at his hopes of being remembered
“‘In his line With his land’s language.’
“And who can read the noble and heart-speaking apology of Algernon
Sidney, without entering into his consolation no less than his
misfortunes? Speaking of the law being turned into a snare instead of
a protection, and instancing its uncertainty and danger in the times of
Richard the Second, he says, ‘God only knows what will be the issue
of the like practices in these our days; perhaps he will in his mercy
speedily visit his afflicted people; I die in the faith that he will do
it, though I know not the time or ways.’”
“I love,” said Clarendon, “the enthusiasm which places comfort in so
noble a source; but, is vanity, think you, a less powerful agent than
philanthropy? is it not the desire of shining before men that prompts
us to whatever may effect it? and if it can create, can it not also
support? I mean, that if you allow that to shine, to eclater, to enjoy
praise, is no ordinary incentive to the commencement of great works, the
conviction of future success for this desire becomes no inconsiderable
reward. Grant, for instance, that this desire produced the ‘Paradise
Lost,’ and you will not deny that it might also support the poet through
his misfortunes. Do you think that he thought rather of the pleasure his
work should afford to posterity, than of the praises posterity should
extend to his work? Had not Cicero left us such frank confessions of
himself, how patriotic, how philanthropic we should have esteemed him;
now we know both his motive and meed was vanity, may we not extend
the knowledge of human nature which we have gained in this instance
by applying it to others? For my part, I should be loth to inquire how
great a quantum of vanity mingled with the haughty patriotism of Sidney,
or the unconquered spirit of Cato.”
Glanville bowed his head in approval. “But,” observed I, “why be so
uncharitable to this poor, and persecuted principle, since none of you
deny the good and great actions it effects; why stigmatize vanity as a
vice, when it creates, or, at least participates in, so many virtues? I
wonder the ancients did not erect the choicest of their temples to its
worship. Quant a moi, I shall henceforth only speak of it as the primum
mobile of whatever we venerate and admire, and shall think it the
highest compliment I can pay to a man, to tell him he is eminently
vain.”
“I incline to your opinion,” cried Vincent, laughing. “The reason we
dislike vanity in others, is because it is perpetually hurting our own.
Of all passions (if for the moment I may call it such) it is the most
indiscreet; it is for ever blabbing out its own secrets. If it would but
keep its counsel, it would be as graciously received in society, as
any other well-dressed and well-bred intruder of quality. Its garrulity
makes it despised. But in truth it must be clear, that vanity in itself
is neither a vice nor a virtue, any more than this knife, in itself,
is dangerous or useful; the person who employs gives it its qualities;
thus, for instance, a great mind desires to shine, or is vain, in
great actions; a frivolous one, in frivolities: and so on through the
varieties of the human intellect. But I cannot agree with Mr Clarendon,
that my admiration of Algernon Sidney (Cato I never did admire) would
be at all lessened by the discovery, that his resistance to tyranny in
a great measure originated in vanity, or that the same vanity consoled
him, when he fell a victim to that resistance; for what does it prove
but this, that, among the various feelings of his soul, indignation
at oppression, (so common to all men)--enthusiasm for liberty, (so
predominant in him)--the love of benefiting others--the noble pride
of being, in death, consistent with himself; among all these feelings,
among a crowd of others equally honourable and pure--there was also one,
and perhaps no inconsiderable feeling of desire, that his life and
death should be hereafter appreciated justly--contemptu famoe, contemni
virtutem--contempt of fame, is the contempt of virtue? Never consider
that vanity an offence, which limits itself to wishing for the praise of
good men for good actions: next to our own esteem, says the best of the
Roman philosophers, ‘it is a virtue to desire the esteem of others.’”
“By your emphasis on the word esteem,” said Lady Roseville, “I suppose
you attach some peculiar importance to the word?”
“I do,” answered Vincent. “I use it in contradistinction to admiration.
We may covet general admiration for a bad action--(for many bad actions
have the clinquant, which passes for real gold)--but one can expect
general esteem only for a good one.”
“From this distinction,” said Ellen, modestly, “may we not draw an
inference, which will greatly help us in our consideration of vanity;
may we not deem that vanity, which desires only the esteem of others to
be invariably a virtue, and that which only longs for admiration to be
frequently a vice?”
“We may admit your inference,” said Vincent; “and before I leave this
question, I cannot help remarking upon the folly of the superficial, who
imagine, by studying human motives, that philosophers wish to depreciate
human actions. To direct our admiration to a proper point, is surely
not to destroy it; yet how angry inconsiderate enthusiasts are, when we
assign real, in the place of exaggerated feelings. Thus the advocates
for the doctrine of utility--the most benevolent, because the most
indulgent, of all philosophies--are branded with the epithets of selfish
and interested; decriers of moral excellence, and disbelievers in
generous actions. Vice has no friend like the prejudices which call
themselves virtue. La pretexte ordinaire de ceux qui font le malheur des
autres est qu’ils veulent leur bien.”
My eyes were accidentally fixed on Glanville as Vincent ceased; he
looked up, and coloured faintly as he met my look; but he did not
withdraw his own--keenly and steadily we gazed upon each other, till
Ellen, turning round suddenly, remarked the unwonted meaning of our
looks, and placed her hand in her brother’s, with a sort of fear.
It was late; he rose to withdraw, and passing me, said in a low tone,
“A little while, and you shall know all.” I made no answer--he left the
room with Ellen.
“Lady Roseville has had but a dull evening, I fear, with our stupid
saws and antient instances,” said Vincent. The eyes of the person he
addressed were fixed upon the door; I was standing close by her, and
as the words struck her ear, she turned abruptly;--a tear fell upon my
hand--she perceived it, and though I would not look upon her face, I
saw that her very neck blushed; but she, like me, if she gave way to
feeling, had learnt too deep a lesson from the world, not readily to
resume her self-command; she answered Vincent railingly, upon his bad
compliment to us, and received our adieus with all her customary grace,
and more than her customary gaiety.